


consecration

by aetherae



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (of wilding out screaming for bloody murder), Character Study, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Gen, i just think they're Neat and should've had more screentime together, now i give you "dimitri is just rhea lite when it comes to vengeance", you've heard of "rhea and edelgard are parallels/foils to each other"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aetherae/pseuds/aetherae
Summary: Five years is a long time to fight. It's an even longer time to hate. Rhea and Dimitri know that better than anyone.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Rhea
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	consecration

**Author's Note:**

> i know crimson flower is edelgard's route, but also extremely rude of the 3h to give me the teamup of the century with the two sexiest* characters in the game and then not even give them screentime together often. YOU CAN'T JUST TEASE DESSERT AND THEN YANK IT AWAY, COME ON!!! also though i just think it's funny to imagine what poisonous friends dimitri and rhea must have been to each other. they had to have been getting along in the absolute best worst way.
> 
> *rhea and dimitri are THE sexiest characters in the game because they're the only two characters to have cutscenes where they have blood on them. no i do not take argument on this.
> 
> with all that said though, i hope you enjoy!

**1181.**

In the polished marble halls of Fhirdiad Castle, Rhea remembers the last time she was here, although at the time, she stood amongst the crowds rather than before the throne itself. Back then, she watched as Loog was crowned the first King of Lions.

This time, she crowns the next King of Lions herself.

It sets her teeth on edge, to be driven from her own home _yet again_ , to have her mother’s heart used against her once more by a thief, a wretch, a complete and utter failure—but she inhales, long and deep, reminding herself tha she’s played this song and dance before. She’s older now, wiser, with centuries spent watching humanity, guiding them, seeing every little trick and scheme they fall back to during times of war. Saint Seiros needed a hundred years to vanquish Nemesis, inexperienced and young as she was, but Rhea knows better now, she knows more. 

Dear as he was, even with her own blood, Wilhelm never had the burning fire of hatred in his eyes that Dimitri’s bear. He did not have the drive, the will, to tear his enemies asunder the way Rhea did then, the way Dimitri does right now.

And that—that will prove useful. King Dimitri may make a far more fitting companion for Saint Seiros than Emperor Wilhelm ever did.

“Do you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, swear to defend the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and its people?”

“I swear it.”

“Do you swear to govern these lands with wisdom and grace? To grant mercy to those seeking atonement? To execute judgment and deliver justice unto those who must be punished?”

“I swear it.”

“Do you swear to maintain in Faerghus the power of the Church of Seiros as established by law? To preserve the doctrine and worship of the goddess?” Rhea asks, her gaze heavy upon where Dimitri kneels before her. Everyone else here may see these oaths as performative, mere ritual, but the archbishop asks for a much higher price. The young prince sees that. “Do you swear to uphold the sacred name of the goddess against those who would blaspheme against her, and to strike down her enemies as decreed by her will?”

Dimitri’s voice rings in the hall as loud and clear as the bells of Garreg Mach. 

“In the name of the goddess Sothis, I swear it.”

For one brief moment, Rhea smiles. The sunlight of early dawn streams through the stained glass windows of the throne room, as if bathing them all in the light of the goddess herself. She sets the heavy, glimmering crown of Faerghus upon Dimitri’s head, welcoming her new ally. Her companion.

“Then rise, Dimitri. Rise, blessed by the goddess Sothis, as King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

Dimitri rises, more regal than even Loog himself as he walks straight towards his throne, the mantle of his cape billowing behind him. He does not ask Rhea to stand aside, and she does not beg pardon before stepping away next to the royal seat. They stand as equals before the people of Faerghus, equals in their desire to spill the blood of the Empire. 

Her new ally does not disappoint her.

“The Empire believes it can take back what our forebearers rightfully won: Faerghus itself. Under Emperor Edelgard’s orders, Adrestia seeks to desecrate the goddess. She attacked our longstanding allies of the Church of Seiros, and now she means to take what is ours! To steal that which the goddess has blessed us with, and to destroy the foundations of the goddess’s protection! I say to you as your king that I will not have it!” Dimitri’s voice booms thunderously throughout the hall, every person there standing in rapt attention. There is no turning away from a storm, not when it charges so relentlessly forward, and so they can only watch as they’re caught within its power. “I, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, hereby declare war on the Empire of Adrestia. If they seek to conquer us so eagerly, then the plains of Faerghus shall drink their fill of Imperial blood!”

The crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers, swelling and rising enough to fill the entire room with their roars, as if not even this cavernous hall of marble and glass can contain the deafening power of their voices, their will. Rhea simply closes her eyes, soaking in the inharmonious noise, the ear-splitting familiarity of it all: the cries for justice, for judgment, for blood. She closes her eyes and remembers.

This is the sound of vengeance.

* * *

**1182.**

“I’m aware of the strength that runs through House Blaiddyd, but you need not worry, Dimitri. Do not hold anything back. I can handle myself.”

Dressed in a simple gown and with a training sword in hand, Rhea stands before Dimitri in the castle training grounds. He’s seen for himself just how fearsome a warrior the archbishop is, the battle for Garreg Mach proving that quite well along with several skirmishes throughout western Faerghus, but even now a sense of decorum leaves him wary. Even without much faith in the goddess himself, he was raised all his life to respect the archbishop. He was raised all his life to be careful of his strength. The professor may not have been _his_ professor, but Byleth taught him better than to lose control.

Still, he will not let Rhea’s request for a spar go unanswered. He spreads his feet apart, lance in hand as he shifts into stance. “Of course. I expect the same of you, Lady Rhea.”

He lunges. She parries. He swings his lance. She sidesteps from its path. It’s a song and dance that runs as deep as the marrow in his bones, exchanging blows and trading bruises. They match each other move for move, long enough that he loses track of the minutes. There’s no way for him to know just how long it is, but eventually, something shifts. Rhea frowns, and instead of striking at his open side like he anticipates, she sweeps his legs out from under him with a low kick. By the time he realizes what’s happened, the point of her sword rests against the hollow of his throat.

“You’re still holding back on me,” she says, unimpressed and dispassionate. When she withdraws her sword, he realizes she hasn’t even broken a sweat. Neither has he. “Again.”

It’s not that they were matching each other move for move. Rhea kept pace with him, humored him, and grew impatient when she realized he continued to restrain himself. He wants to say she underestimated him, but she read him as easily as an open book. As easily as the professor once did.

The handle of his spear nearly gives under the force of his grip when he stands up. He shifts back into stance, eyes narrowed.

“Again.”

They fight again. And again. And again. And every time, Rhea outmaneuvers him when she decides she’s had enough: the pommel of her sword brought down hard against his shoulder, her coiled fist slugged straight into his stomach, a blast of fire knocking him flat on his back. He falls and falls and falls, all to the sound of Rhea demanding he stop holding back. This is a training yard though, not the battlefield, he has no desire to spill blood in a spar meant for practice— 

But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

“Not good enough, Dimitri!” Rhea shouts at him as she parries the blade of his lance with her sword, their faces so close that if he reached out with his hand, he could snap her neck in two— But the archbishop sends him toppling to the ground once more with her knee to his gut. He kneels, and Rhea’s sword finds his throat as if it belongs there, cold disappointment dripping from her voice when she says, “You’ll never take Edelgard’s head like this.”

Once more, Rhea looks down at him, her gaze evaluating and imperious both. For a moment, he sees Byleth. For a moment, he sees Edelgard.

And he knows that she’s right.

Fury seizes his heart, and he lunges back up at the archbishop with a roar. He fights with his ghosts screaming for justice. He fights knowing his hands have longed to spill blood ever since Edelgard revealed herself, ever since the tragedy left him with nothing but the dead and a broken heart. He fights the way he has for the last year at the border of western Faerghus, like a demon, like a monster, like a living storm.

Before long, it is Dimitri who stands above Rhea. Blood and bruises both litter their bodies, the sounds of their clashing weapons replaced with the harsh pants of exertion and bloodlust. With his lance pressed right into the hollow of her throat, Rhea smiles up at him. Approval shines in her pale green eyes, and in some strange way, it almost reminds him of Byleth.

But Byleth never looked at him with their teeth bared in a vicious grin, the smile of a hunter, a predator. The few times they sparred, the professor only spoke of controlling his strength, to harness and use it for his own purposes rather than letting it use him instead. Byleth never said to unleash his strength, of letting it run wild in rampage so that it could tear his enemies to pieces. No, the professor never sparred with him like that, never fought with the hunger for justice and blood. Not like the archbishop does.

Rhea, he thinks, suits him far better for a teacher than Byleth ever did.

* * *

**1183.**

The hour is late when Rhea hears a voice muttering down the hall. It’s become a familiar sound over the past few years, as has the sight. Dedue stands guard before the darkened hall, but even without any lamps or sconces to light the way, there’s only one person who keeps to such late hours so restlessly.

Well, aside from herself. Sleep finds her less and less these days, not when the apostate and the failure still draw breath somewhere.

Dimitri holds himself together well enough during their war councils, and he leads every battle with the confidence and fortitude of a true king, but she’s seen him ranting and raving in the castle halls at night before. He speaks to his loved ones long since dead, staring into empty space with a needle-thin smile as he renews his promises—to avenge them, to bring them justice, to deliver Edelgard’s bloody head on a spike to their graves.

It reminds Rhea of herself, when she was younger. She watches Dimitri and remembers all too well the young girl she once was, no better than a child, lost and screaming for the hearts of her family back. She remembers the bone-deep satisfaction of sinking her blade into Nemesis’ flesh, the warmth of his blood splattering across her face as she watched the life drain from his eyes. She remembers the triumph at the sound of his last breath. She remembers the agony of cradling her mother's bones.

Rhea remembers the victory. She remembers the loss.

Dimitri is a comrade, and she won’t deny the concern, the compassion in her heart when he haunts his own castle like a ghost himself—but she won’t get ahead of herself either. Wilhelm’s wretched descendant reminded her all too well of the fickleness of humanity, their propensity for betrayal and how quick they are to turn their backs on blessings so they may wage war instead. Should Seiros face her in battle, she will not hesitate to cut Edelgard down herself.

But as she looks at Dimitri emerge from the dark, watches him pull the frayed edges of his sanity back together and leave his ghosts to their rest, she prays that he might know that same satisfaction one day soon. Just as she will once more.

* * *

**1184.**

Dimitri expects to find himself alone when he steps outside into the courtyard. It’s late at night, and now that the castle finds itself host to a number of members of the Church of Seiros, most of its inhabitants tend to find Fhirdiad’s winter chill to be too much. These days, when he wants a moment alone, he finds them most often by waiting until nightfall and heading out into the winter air.

Tonight though, he does not find himself alone.

“Dimitri.”

He starts. Just to the side sits Rhea at a bench, a wine glass filled halfway with red in her hand and a bottle of her liquor of choice beside her. She looks—almost relaxed, arms and legs crossed without any of her regalia or a weapon in hand, and even after years as her ally on the battlefield, he thinks it a strange sight.

“Lady Rhea. I apologize, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, bowing ever so slightly. Enough to show his sincere apologies, yet not enough to show deference. As king, he cannot do so for anyone, not even the archbishop.

“Please, there’s no need to apologize. I was simply enjoying the night air, much the same as you meant to, I’m sure,” she says with a shake of her head, idly swirling the wine in her glass. The archbishop raises the glass to her mouth, lips parted to imbibe—only to pause, seeming to think better of it. Glass still in hand, she gestures it towards Dimitri. “Would you like a drink? Though I’m afraid I only have the one glass.”

He blinks. “No, thank you. I don’t wish to be impolite.”

Rhea scoffs, though not unkindly. “We are comrades-in-arms before anything else, Dimitri. It is not so strange for warriors to share a drink together, is it? Truthfully, you needn’t even call me by title when we’re in private.”

She holds her glass out to him still, and with a short laugh, he takes it. 

“That, I admit, is more habit than anything else. There’s nothing I can say to argue against your other point though, so I shall accept your offer. Thank you.”

Dimitri takes a hearty sip of the wine, and it goes down as flavorless as everything else always does, but it warms in Fhirdiad’s cold all the same. Taking the seat next to Rhea, he sets the wine glass between them. It’s strange, when he thinks about it. Despite having fought side-by-side for years now, there’s still so little he understands about her. He knows that he should, in all honesty, ask about some things. Rhea may not have taken on that draconic appearance since the fall of Garreg Mach, but everyone knows whose voice sprang from the Immaculate One’s mouth that day.

Later, perhaps. Right now, it matters little to him. The archbishop is a powerful warrior, and she seeks to spill the blood of the Empire as eagerly as he does. In the midst of this savage war, that’s enough for Dimitri. So long as Edelgard dares to continue breathing, he can’t afford to be picky in allies, not when they can bring him closer to finally severing that woman’s sick head from her shoulders.

As Rhea refills the wine glass though, there is admittedly one thing he’s curious about.

“You truly believe the pro—that Byleth is still alive?” he asks, and Rhea freezes where she sits. The chill in the air isn’t just the familiar cold of winter, but the oppressive force of the archbishop’s sheer hatred. He’s come to find that chill just as familiar, just as steadying.

“Of course. I won’t allow that failure to have the audacity to die, not unless it is by my hand first.”

A failure to what, exactly? Dimitri doesn’t know, but over the last few years, Rhea has always spoken of Byleth in the same careful, hateful manner: a failure, a mistake, the greatest blunder of her life. It goes farther than the betrayal of her welcoming the ex-mercenary into her home, only for Byleth to ensure its destruction. Still, Rhea speaks of ensuring Byleth falls by her hand; as far as he can tell, the professor already has.

“There’s been no word or sign of Byleth for years now,” he says with a grimace. If Edelgard’s beloved _teacher_ still lived, they surely would have seen the professor leading her armies by now. Rhea passes him back the wine glass, and he drinks. Even without taste, the wine goes down bitter. “So how can you be sure?”

Rhea scowls, but there’s a desperation to her gaze that he finds all too familiar. “That wretch may be worthless, but their heart is not so weak as that. A mere fall couldn’t possibly hope to kill them. Before that garbage ceases to breathe, I will look into their eyes and see the horror there as I finally tear that heart out of their chest myself and take back that which they have stolen.”

She pauses though, eyes closed as she sighs long and heavy, and for a moment the burning fire of her hatred vanishes. There’s only the way her brow furrows, the dark circles under her eyes he can see even in the dim moonlight, how her shoulders sag so minutely, and Dimitri—Dimitri knows it. He knows it as well as he knows his own name, as well as he knows the weight of a lance in his hand.

It’s grief. Soul-shattering, heart-rending grief.

“I am tired of losing what is precious to me. So once again, I will take it back with my own two hands.”

It’s an answer that doesn’t answer anything, bizarre and perplexing as it is. Dimitri has no idea what could be so special about Byleth’s heart, or why Rhea considers it to belong to her, to be precious. Even now, there are times where she seems to speak only in cryptic riddles and secrets, and he can only think this is another case of that. Still, he knows this much without a doubt: Rhea has mourned. She has lost. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that she’s lost, but if he had to guess—everything. She may have lost everything.

Just the same as him.

“And why do you ask, Dimitri?” He offers the drink back, and she takes it, staring at the wine as she swirls it idly in her glass. “Are you reluctant to face your old professor in battle once more? Hesitant at the thought of killing them with your own hands? Do you hope they already lie dead somewhere, so that you won’t have to end their life yourself?”

He shrugs, dispassionate and unsentimental. Unlike the archbishop, when it comes to Byleth, he cannot claim he feels hatred. Betrayed, perhaps, that someone he thought better of turned out to be so disappointing. However— 

“Should I face the professor again, it will only be so that I may run them through with Areadbhar.”

He admired Byleth, once. Looking back on the naive, foolish boy he was, he can even admit to his envy over how the professor chose to teach the Black Eagles over the Blue Lions. How Byleth chose Edelgard over him. But that was long ago now; he has no pity for Byleth’s fate, whether that’s a pile of bones lying dead in a ditch somewhere or to inevitably be torn to pieces by Rhea’s ruthless rage. 

The professor chose to side with beasts, to walk Edelgard’s savage path beside her as fellow monsters. There’s nothing to do then but slaughter them like monsters.

Rhea raises her glass to him and smiles: thin, delicate, deadly. When she drinks, she drinks long and slow, a drop spilling past her lips and staining her skin red.

“Mark my words, Dimitri,” she says kindly, warmly, as she offers the glass to him once more. “The failure and the apostate both—there won’t be a shred of their corpses left for Adrestia’s burning ashes to mourn by the time we’re done.”

He smiles when he takes the glass. This time when he drinks, the wine tastes sweet.

* * *

**1185.**

“They are not well, are they?”

In the private training grounds of the Blaiddyd royal family, Flayn watches as Dimitri and Rhea— _King_ Dimitri and _Lady_ Rhea, His Majesty and Her Grace, yet even after years of war she can only see her friend and her family—spar with one another. Despite using blunted training weapons, they fight one another with a viciousness that borders on ugly, appalling. They goad one another about their targets of revenge, that Dimitri can’t behead Edelgard with such a weak swing, that Rhea can’t carve out Byleth’s heart with such a poor thrust. The way they smile at one another, teeth bared and eyes manic as they imagine rending their most hated enemies to shreds—

It frightens her.

Beside her, Dedue remains silent for a long moment. He’s known Dimitri for nearly twice as long as she has, but she’s known Rhea for even longer. It’s how she knows what she sees in Dimitri, and she thinks it’s why Dedue knows what he sees in Rhea. He closes his eyes with a sigh when he says, “No. They are not.”

“You would both do well to keep that to yourselves,” Seteth whispers from her other side. All of them speak in hushed tones, although truthfully, Flayn suspects that neither Dimitri nor Rhea would hear them from where they are. The savage sounds of their bloodlust, their frenzy, ring louder than anything else in the courtyard. Seteth’s brow furrows when he looks upon their army generals though, bitter agreement etched into his face with a frown. “We need their strength if we wish to remain safe from the Empire.”

 _And from those the Emperor works with_ , is her father’s unsaid warning, his gaze resting on her. Flayn knows he’s right. She understands why Rhea is so single-mindedly determined to take Byleth’s—Sothis’s—heart back, and she understands the danger of it being left in the Empire’s hands. More than that though, she fears the danger of allowing Edelgard’s allies to run amok in Fódlan. She won’t let them lay a hand on her again, she _can’t_ , she’ll drown herself in the Rhodos Coast before she allows those people to turn her into weaponized bones— 

But even then, she worries. Rhea is like family to her. Dimitri is her friend. It feels like so long ago, ages and ages for both of them, when she last saw them smile in joy rather than this twisted, bloodthirsty glee.

“They will be better after we win though, will they not? They can be as they once were?”

It is the hope of a child, and even Flayn can hear the resignation in her voice. When she finally woke from her slumber and saw Rhea again, even though the woman smiled, it wasn’t the way that Flayn remembered from her youth. It never was. Seeing Dimitri now, it’s hard to imagine that he could either.

Seteth and Dedue both are kind though, and so they indulge her childish hope.

“Let us hope so,” her father says, the one person who has been with Rhea the longest—and he does not look as if he believes.

Dedue nods, the one person who has been with Dimitri the longest—and neither does he look on with faith. “Indeed. We can only hope.”

All three of them watch though, listening to the way Dimitri and Rhea both call for blood, for vengeance, for what they see as justice.

Flayn knows the truth in her heart, even when she closes her eyes: there is no going back.

**Author's Note:**

> some highlights from my notes:
> 
> \- 1182: I just realized it’d make sense for dimitri and rhea to spar and i’m fucking depressed bc i hate writing action scenes  
> \- 1184: THEY'RE ABOUT TO BE WINING AND WHINING TOGETHER


End file.
